


Hold Me (like the night holds the moon)

by CatastropheCat



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Dom/sub Undertones, Episode Fix-It: s01e06 Rare Species, Eventual Smut, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Pining, Safe Sane and Consensual, Service Top Jaskier | Dandelion, Sex Pollen, Submissive Geralt of Rivia, but more like happy feel-good pollen honestly, geralt deserves to be taken care of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:36:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23537737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatastropheCat/pseuds/CatastropheCat
Summary: "After that day, it was like someone had opened a door in Geralt's mind, and no matter what he did, he couldn’t shut it. There was something inside him that yearned for that floaty, fuzzy feeling, the one that heightened his senses and wiped his mind clean of worry. Even after his relationship with Yen soured, he couldn’t force the desire back into whatever recess of his mind it had crawled out from. Even months later.That’s why he blamed her for what happened with Jaskier."(Aka I wanted to write a fic with submissive Geralt and it grew feelings)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, past Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 103
Kudos: 890
Collections: Sub!Geralt





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I absolutely love bottom!Geralt and since we're in quarantine, I finally have time to write! 
> 
> The title is inspired by one of Alexandra Vasiliu's three line poems.

Looking back, Geralt could say with relative certainty that the start of the whole affair had been Yennefer’s fault. 

Before Yen, Geralt had viewed sex as an instinct born of his biology; an itch to scratch. No one at Kaer Morhen had said or done anything that made him think otherwise. In fact, when he was twelve, Vesemir had sat him down and explained the mechanics of intercourse in a dry, matter-of-fact manner. After training and hunting on the mountain for so many years, Geralt wasn’t surprised. Come spring, every animal in sight was either trying to find a partner or furiously ploughing its mate. Sex, Vesemir explained, felt good because it was a biological incentive to procreate, and while Witchers could not sire children, the instinct remained. He advised Geralt to indulge the urge every so often so that it didn’t become a distraction, and that was the end of it.

So Geralt traveled and slayed monsters and bedded whores in between. They were always a bit wary of him, but most lay back and let him do as he pleased. Even on the occasions when Geralt found a lover whom he didn’t have to pay, the woman in question seemed to expect him to take the lead. Perhaps everyone just expected the big, bad Witcher to be as rough and demanding in bed as he was outside of it.

Out of curiosity, Geralt even tried a few male whores, but they too simply opened themselves up for him with slick fingers and bent over so he could take his pleasure. It was enjoyable, but altogether too similar an experience to fucking a woman for the extra coin to be worth it. 

Renfri had been different, in that their coupling had felt less like a transaction and more like the frantic fucking of two wild animals. They left bruises and red, clawed lines on each other’s flesh as if they were marking their territory. She had not been gentle with him, and he’d enjoyed it immensely. 

And then came Yennefer. The sorceress fucked like she fought: confident, demanding, and unrelenting. Even that first time, she rode him amidst the broken wreckage of a building with single-minded intensity. The second time, she’d grabbed him by the hair and forced his head downward with intention, and Geralt had realized that he wasn’t the one in control. During every one of their couplings, when he wasn’t doing exactly what she wanted, she’d correct him with a terse command or a purposeful tug at his hair. Geralt’s mind would go fuzzy with some unnamed emotion, and he’d follow her every demand. Once, she had him kneel at her feet, and when he curled his fingers inside her just right, she moaned out a pleased, “Good boy.” Geralt came in his breeches right then and there.

After that day, it was like someone had opened a door in Geralt's mind, and no matter what he did, he couldn’t shut it. There was something inside him that yearned for that floaty, fuzzy feeling, the one that heightened his senses and wiped his mind clean of worry. Even after his relationship with Yen soured, he couldn’t force the desire back into whatever recess of his mind it had crawled out from. Even months later

That’s why he blamed her for what happened with Jaskier.

—

After the incident with the dragon and the mountain and Yennefer, Geralt and Jaskier went their separate ways.

Geralt tried to convince himself that it was for the best. So what if every time he heard another bard singing one of Jaskier’s songs, he decided to order another mug of ale? He was thirsty; it certainly wasn’t because the familiar notes conjured up images of Jaskier’s shattered expression when Geralt had said- No. It wasn’t that.

And if Geralt had dreams — not nightmares — about Jaskier getting chased and devoured by rotfiends, it was because he’d had to save the bard constantly over the years and his mind was used to looking for any danger that might befall him. He woke up out of breath and covered in sweat because his body was ready for a fight. He wasn’t... afraid.

It took six months before they finally ran into each other again. Geralt had just finished slaying a pack of ghouls that had been terrorizing a local village. Of course, the alderman had forgotten to mention that the pack was led by an alghoul — a ghoul who’d grown even nastier and more cunning with age. It managed to get in a blow by charging Geralt from the rear when he was occupied with fending off its friends. So, while he’d managed to come out of the experience with only a few bruises and scrapes, he was absolutely covered in graveyard dirt and ghoul blood. With a sigh, he cut off the alghoul’s head and stuffed it in a bag to show to the alderman and tied it to Roach’s saddlebag. On the ride back to the inn, his body began to ache in that familiar, bone-feel sort of way; Geralt was really looking forward to a hot bath and a few hours of sleep in a real bed before collecting his coin. 

He was so preoccupied by the thought of these luxuries that he failed to notice the melodic voice drifting through the gaps in the inn’s shabby wooden walls until he opened the door.

And by then there was no turning back, because his gaze met Jaskier’s over the heads of the gathered crowd and he was frozen on the spot. The bard’s blue eyes went wide, but he didn’t stop singing. 

Geralt turned his head away and started toward the bar. He felt as if someone was squeezing his heart in a vice.

“Ale,” he told the barkeep. The man wrinkled his nose (Gods, he didn’t smell that bad, did he?) and nodded. By the time the man had filled a tankard and slid it over to Geralt from halfway down the damn bar (apparently he did smell that bad) the song was over and Jaskier was sliding onto the stool next to him.

“Didn’t expect to find you here,” the bard murmured. His voice was soft, and more cautious than Geralt had ever heard it. It was as if Jaskier expected Geralt to turn and bite his head off if he made a single wrong move. 

“There was a pack of ghouls in the area,” Geralt explained, half apologetic despite the fact that the ghouls being there hadn’t been his fault at all. “Taken care of now.”

Jaskier let out a subdued chuckle. “Yeah, I can see that. With the whole...” He gestured to Geralt’s blood and grime covered body. “I’m surprised you didn’t go right upstairs for a boiling hot bath.”

“Got distracted.” Jaskier’s expression grew sour at the words, and Geralt nearly winced.

“Right then. Don’t let me keep you, I suppose. I don’t want to — oh, what’s the phrase? Shovel more shit onto your life?” He pushed away from the bar and made to stand, but Geralt caught his wrist. He didn’t know why he did it beyond the fact that he really didn’t want Jaskier to go.

He opened his mouth, then realized he had no idea what to say. After everything that they’d been through, nothing seemed adequate. Finally, when Jaskier began to look less surprised and more annoyed, he managed a gruff, “I’m sorry.” 

Jaskier’s mouth opened in a small ‘o’ of astonishment and then closed. After another beat, he opened it again. “Really? _You’re_ sorry? Because, Geralt of Rivia, I’m pretty damn sure that’s a first. I don’t think I’ve heard you apologize once in my entire life, and certainly not to me.”

Geralt let go of his wrist and was embarrassed to find that he was blushing. “Yes, really.”

Jaskier was starting to grin. “Really what? Remind me again.”

Geralt rolled his eyes, but he was beginning to smile too. “I’m not saying it again, Jaskier.”

“Ah, what a shame. I suppose I’ll just have to compose an epic ballad detailing the Tale of The Witcher Who Said Things He Didn’t Mean To His Very Kind and Handsome Friend Who Absolutely Deserved Better.”

“That title is a bit of a mouthful,” Geralt pointed out, taking a sip from his tankard.

“I’m breaking with tradition,” Jaskier said airily. “I’m a trendsetter, really. Next thing you know, they’ll be teaching my new technique to all the young bardlings at Oxenfurt.”

Geralt grinned into his cup. He’d really missed this. Jaskier’s voice washed over him as they bantered, and Geralt found himself slowly relaxing. The smell of scented oils the bard often wore was pleasant without being overwhelming to Geralt’s sensitive nose, and he could still smell Jaskier’s natural scent under the perfume. Moreover, it was comfortingly familiar. 

When Jaskier slid off his seat an hour or so later, Geralt tensed. Of course, this easy comradery could only last for so long. He was an idiot; Jaskier was going to leave. 

“Blessed Melitele, Geralt, you needn’t look like a kicked dog,” Jaskier chuckled. “I’m just going to go piss.”

“Ah.” Geralt stared into the bottom of his empty tankard to avoid looking at Jaskier’s amused expression. The bard lingered for a moment, and when Geralt raised his head to see what was taking so long, he caught sight of a soft, fond expression on the bard’s face. The Witcher felt his cheeks grow hot with the first hints of a blush. “Well? Don’t let me keep you.”

“Right.” Was Jaskier’s face even redder than before, or was that just the alcohol? 

When the bard returned several minutes later, he was covering a yawn with the back of his hand. “Phew! I’m beat. Maybe we should go upstairs. You can finally have your bath, my grimy Witcher friend.”

“You have a room already?” Geralt asked gruffly. In their past travels, they usually would rent a room with two beds to cut down on costs. Or, when necessary, share a single bed; it wasn’t like Jaskier wouldn’t climb into Geralt’s bedroll when it was cold anyway. 

Jaskier bit his lower lip. “No, actually. Are you offering?” Geralt shrugged, letting out a soft ‘hmm’ and the bard shook his head. “Same old Geralt,” he murmured. “Don’t know what I expected.” His mouth quirked up in a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

—

During the night, Jaskier ended up pressed up against Geralt’s back from chest to calf. While they always started off sleeping back to back, Jaskier had a habit of trying to cuddle his bed partners in his slumber, and no amount of bad-tempered growling from Geralt could break it. But after six months apart, Geralt couldn’t help but find comfort in the bard’s hot breath on the back of his neck and the way their bodies slotted together just so. He was lulled to sleep by the sound of Jaskier’s soft snores and for the first time since they’d parted, Geralt finally slept soundly.

In the morning, after they’d both eaten a breakfast of dried pork and bread, Jaskier followed him out the door of the inn toward Roach’s stall, strumming his lute and humming to himself. As usual, he attempted to pet the mare’s nose and got nipped for his trouble, but Roach did graciously allow him to stroke her neck as Geralt put on her saddle. Once Geralt had collected his payment from the alderman, they set out on the road. Jaskier walked beside Roach, singing snippets of his latest ballads as if nothing had changed between them.

By all rights, it should have felt as if everything was back to normal, or as normal as Geralt’s life ever got. And yet, a strange tension hung in the air between them. Geralt steadfastly ignored it, unwilling to cause anymore trouble between him and his bard. 

And when had he started thinking of Jaskier as his?

Best not to dwell on that either.

—

A month later, everything changed.

The latest town they’d happened upon had been having trouble with a griffin carrying off their sheep. While it wasn’t the easiest contract, the pay was decent, and Geralt accepted. He and Jaskier set up camp in the forest, far enough away from the griffin nest that the Witcher felt safe leaving the bard there alone while he hunted the beast down. 

Unfortunately, the nest actually belonged to a mated pair rather than a solitary griffin and Geralt was forced to down several potions in order to avoid getting disemboweled by their sharp talons. By the time both creatures lay dead at his feet, the sun had nearly sunk behind the tree line and Geralt was feeling dizzy. He collected proof of his kill as fast as he could; soon the adrenaline high would wear off and he wouldn’t be able to ignore the toxins in his blood any longer. 

He barely made it back to camp. As soon as he stepped into the flickering circle of light cast by the fire, his legs buckled underneath him and he found himself on his hands and knees.

“Geralt, there you- oh shit.” Geralt squinted up at Jaskier’s blurry form as the bard rushed over to him. “Are you all right? Melitele preserve us, your face.” Geralt was sure his eyes, and the veins surrounding them, were still pitch black from the concoctions he’d swallowed, and his skin had taken on a deathly pallor. “I’ve never seen it this bad.”

“I’m fine,” Geralt mumbled. He struggled to a sitting position. “Gotta... sleep it off.” He grimaced as the world seemed to spin. He was a gods’ damned idiot. He should have set a trap. Should have observed the nest longer. He should have at least searched for the right herbs to make a poison. Geralt tried to stand so he could get over to his bedroll, but he barely made it to one knee before he toppled over.

Jaskier steadied him with a hand on his shoulder. “You’re obviously not fine. Isn’t there anything else we can do?”

Geralt shook his head, instinctively leaning into the touch. “Nothing to do but wait it out.”

Jaskier looked conflicted, but then a determined expression settled across his features. “All right then. Let me help you get comfortable then.” 

It took some maneuvering, but Jaskier managed to half guide, half drag Geralt to his bedroll. But instead of leaving him to ride out the toxins alone, Jaskier hovered. He reached out and stroked a lock of hair off Geralt’s sweaty forehead and the Witcher couldn’t hold back a soft sound. The touch felt so damn good; Jaskier’s fingers were cool against his fevered skin and the point of contact kept him grounded, tethered to the here and now instead of surrendering to the pain.

Jaskier scooted closer, emboldened by his reaction. “Okay then. I’m going to touch you, if that's all right? Just to distract you. Nothing... untoward.”

Geralt, despite his better judgement, nodded. He didn’t fight when Jaskier pulled his head into his lap, nuzzling against the bard’s thigh instead.

Jaskier inhaled sharply. “All right. Good... good. You’re doing amazing, Geralt.” 

A pleasant shiver went down the Witcher’s spine and he let his eyes slip shut. 

Jaskier undid the leather cord that kept his hair out of his face and began combing through the tangled strands with his fingers. “Your hair is softer than I thought it would be. Not that I’ve, you know, thought about it much.” 

Geralt rumbled in reply. Jaskier’s touch sent sparks dancing along his skin, like little currents of lightning. He could almost ignore the ache in his bones when Jaskier touched him like that.

“Do you have any injuries?” Jaskier asked. “I should probably have asked that first.” 

Geralt grunted in response; he didn’t have the energy for full sentences. 

“Right then,” Jaskier half chuckled. There was a note of worry in his voice, though he tried to hide it. “Let’s get your armor off then.” He shifted Geralt’s head off his lap, and the Witcher let out an involuntary whine. “Don’t fret, it’ll just take a moment. I’ve watched you do it enough times.”

It took a bit more than a moment, but that was mostly because Geralt wasn’t much help. Jaskier managed to get him down to his undershirt and breeches. He pulled off Geralt’s boots last, then sat back to examine him. “All right then, your shoulder needs patching up.” 

Geralt squinted down at it; there were three gouges in the flesh. He hadn’t even noticed the extra pain until Jaskier had pointed it out. He tried to get his shirt off while Jaskier fetched the healer’s kit, but in the end the bard had to help him. Normally Geralt would have just gone into a meditative trance and dealt with the wound when he awoke, but he knew Jaskier wouldn’t stand for that. He tended to fret when Geralt got injured. When they’d started traveling together, the bard had pestered Geralt until the Witcher finally taught him how to care for all manner of cuts, scrapes, and bruises.

When he returned, Jaskier was as gentle as ever. He spread salve over the wound and secured some gauze over it to keep it clean. The salve stung a bit, but Geralt missed the feeling when Jaskier pulled away. 

“There’s a bruise on your hip,” Jaskier murmured. His voice was so soothing. Had it always sounded like that? Low and melodic, like a siren song. “I use the jar with the green lid for bruises, right?” 

Geralt managed a nod.

The ointment was cool against his overly warm skin when Jaskier applied it and Geralt couldn’t help but moan softly in pleasure. He heard Jaskier’s breath quicken, but the bard didn’t stop rubbing the cream into his skin in gentle circles. 

“That’s wonderful, Geralt. You’re doing amazing.” 

Geralt’s let out a rumble in response to the praise. That sweet, fuzzy feeling was clouding his mind and it really should have alarmed him. But even in the middle of the woods at night, injured and nearly helpless, he felt... safe. 

When Jaskier tried to pull away, Geralt grabbed at his arm. “Stay.”

Jaskier smiled down at him fondly. “Of course, Witcher dearest.” 

He positioned Geralt’s head in his lap again and the White Wolf fell asleep to the sound of a half familiar lullaby as Jaskier stroked his hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to the Geraskier discord server for keeping my motivation fresh with all their horny energy. Your comments mean the world to me!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the griffin incident leaves Geralt struggling as he tries to figure out how he truly feels about Jaskier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it took me so long to update this! I had a six day long migraine and my brain was too scrambled to write. No beta on this because I wanted to get it to you all as soon as possible. Your comments and kudos have meant so much to me <3

Geralt awoke the morning after the griffin hunt feeling, well, not  _ good _ , per se, but a fair sight better than he’d expected. Usually, when his body needed to flush out that many toxins, he awoke with a splitting headache and aching muscles, but today the pain was more of a minor annoyance and he could easily shove it to the back of his mind.

The Witcher stretched, half expecting to bump against another warm body, but surprisingly Jaskier wasn’t curled up in the bedroll with him. Geralt quickly pushed aside a twinge of disappointment and sat up to look for the bard.

Jaskier was sitting by the fire pit with his journal in one hand and a quill in the other. He was humming to himself, a tune Geralt didn’t recognize. When the bard caught sight of Geralt, he grinned. 

“Ah, there’s my sleeping beauty. Feeling better?”

Geralt nodded, rubbing at his eyes. The sun was high in the sky and the Witcher grimaced. It looked as if he’d slept nearly until midday, far later than he preferred.

His throat was dry, but before he could even ask, the bard was pressing a water skin into his hands. “Drink up then. We’ve got some of that salted venison left if you can manage it. You’re not nauseous, are you?”

Geralt was too busy chugging down water to answer at first. Once he’d drained the whole skin, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I could eat.” 

He expected to have to go get the food himself, but Jaskier began rummaging through his own pack. 

Geralt frowned at him. “That’s yours.” 

“Yes, well, I wasn’t the one who spent last night slaying a griffin and then getting quite ill,” Jaskier countered. “You need to regain your strength.”

Geralt opened his mouth to protest, but instead what came out was, “Two griffins.”

“Ah, that explains the amount of potions then,” Jaskier said. He pulled out the pouch containing the venison and handed it to Geralt. 

The Witcher immediately took out a piece and crammed the entire thing into his mouth. Now that he had food in front of him, he found he was starving. Besides, Jaskier wasn’t going to scold him for his manners; the bard had seen him wolf down two entire meals in one sitting at the few banquets he’d been dragged to and he’d looked more impressed than disgusted. 

Jaskier watched as Geralt inhaled the jerky piece by piece with an odd expression that Geralt could only describe as satisfied. When he finished the whole pouch, he began licking the salt off his fingers.

“More?” Jaskier asked. His voice sounded rough, and Geralt looked up to find the bard staring at him with dark eyes, his lower lip caught between his teeth.

Heat pooled in the Witcher’s stomach and he swiftly looked away, shaking his head. In truth, his hunger was far from sated, but he was used to it. Witchers had high metabolisms, and even when he had the coin to spare on extra food, it was better put to use repairing his weapons and armor. 

“Let me get you more water, then.” Jaskier made to get up, but Geralt stopped him with a hand on his wrist. 

“Don’t. I can get it myself.” He didn’t need the bard fussing over him. He could decapitate a drowner with a single strike of his sword; he wasn’t  _ weak. _ And if Jaskier’s gentle words and kind touches made something inside him want to purr in pleasure, that was just another reason to put a stop to his behavior.

In all their years traveling together, Jaskier had never indicated that he wanted Geralt. He flirted, sure, but Jaskier flirted with everything with two legs and some things with four (Geralt had once caught him crooning love songs at  _ Roach _ ). Even if Geralt was attracted to him — which he  _ wasn’t _ — letting the bard take care of him like this was a recipe for disaster. 

Jaskier’s cheeks went pink. “Right. Of course.” He scooted over to dying embers of the fire and picked his journal and quill back up. “I’ll let you...” He made a vague motion with the hand holding the quill. “You know. Do your thing.” 

So Geralt donned armor again and went to sniff out the griffin head he’d dropped somewhere on the way back to camp. He ignored the way the wound in his shoulder twinged when he’d moved his arm and doubly ignored the memory of Jaskier’s warm hands smoothing salve over the cuts. 

When he returned, Jaskier was back to his cheerful, annoying self. He didn’t stare at Geralt with hunger in his eyes, and he didn’t offer to do anything for the Witcher. When Geralt surreptitiously sniffed him, he smelled of lavender oil, sweat, and something Geralt couldn’t put a name to. 

He tried to convince himself that everything was back to normal.

— 

Everything was not back to normal, because Geralt couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Every time he looked at Jaskier, the memories surfaced again: Jaskier’s hands on him; Jaskier’s mouth curved into a gentle smile; Jaskier’s eyes, the blue of his irises nearly consumed by dilated pupils. 

And with the memories came the dreams. When Geralt woke from them, hard in his breeches and panting, he could only remember snippets. But they all featured Jaskier in some compromising position or another. In one particularly vivid dream, Jaskier held Geralt’s hips down to the mattress and teased the Witcher with his mouth until Geralt felt like he’d go mad from it, then took him to the root. Geralt had woken to find his underclothes sticky with come; luckily a quick rinse and a few minutes by the fire had left them mostly clean and only slightly damp. Thank the gods Jaskier had stayed asleep the entire time.

They hadn’t slept next to each other since that night. While Geralt was relieved that Jaskier hadn’t discovered his problem, he knew it was only a matter of time before the bard decided he was chilly in the middle of the night and crawled into bed beside him. If that happened, there would be no hiding it, and Geralt only hoped he’d be able to pass his condition off as morning wood. 

Geralt tried to convince himself that he shouldn’t be worried; Jaskier had no way of knowing that he was the subject of Geralt’s dreams, and the bard wasn’t exactly a blushing virgin. Jaskier still flirted with nearly everyone they encountered, and the bard seemed to take any and every opportunity to get his dick wet. While he didn’t brag about his conquests, Geralt could smell when he’d taken a lover. It hadn’t really bothered him in the past; the scent of sex was a common one — salty and pungent, but inoffensive in small doses. It was just part of traveling with Jaskier, as normal as the bard’s impromptu bouts of song and constant chatter. 

Lately, however, when Jaskier returned to his traveling companion with that telling musky smell clinging to his skin, Geralt felt something in his stomach lurch unpleasantly. It was an unfamiliar emotion, and for some reason the Witcher was finding it hard to ignore. 

Two weeks after the griffin incident, the pair of them arrived in a small, Redanian farming village near dusk. The only tavern in town was easy to find; its windows were well lit and the sounds of laughter and revelry spilled from its open door. 

Geralt braced himself for the usual tense silence that often followed his entrance, the whispers of “freak” and “mutant” and “butcher.” Instead, he just received a few curious glances before the patrons went back to chatting with each other. While this mild reaction had become more commonplace ever since Jaskier had started composing songs about him, Geralt still wasn’t used to it.

“I’m going to go make us some coin while you rent the room,” Jaskier declared with a grin. He squeezed Geralt’s shoulder before heading toward an empty table, and the Witcher repressed a shiver.

Jaskier had been touching him more lately — a friendly nudge here, a reassuring hand on the wrist there — and Geralt hated how much it affected him. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched him so casually. Most people were too afraid. Those that weren’t, like Yen, only put their hands on him to satisfy their own desires, whether those were pleasurable or painful. Jaskier touched him as if it was the most natural thing in the world, and Geralt yearned for more every time.

The Witcher closed his eyes and shoved that feeling to the back of his mind before heading toward the innkeeper. Negotiating a decent price took longer than he’d expected, mostly because the woman who owned the place took one look at his golden eyes and well-maintained armor and tried to swindle him into near double the usual price. 

“Contrary to what you might think,” Geralt growled at last, “Witchers don’t make much coin. Half the money I earn goes to paying for decent weaponry, rare herbs, and feed for my damn horse. I’ll pay the usual price or not at all.” He emphasized his point by leaning forward and locking eyes with her.

The innkeeper paled and took several steps back. “Right then sir, whatever you want.” It was the first sign of fear she’d shown, and Geralt took a deep breath to calm himself. He could practically hear Vesemir in his head, telling him to be more patient. He shoved over an extra few crowns by way of apology, hoping she wouldn’t spit in their food. 

Geralt turned, intending to grab a table to eat at, when he caught sight of Jaskier. The bard was pressed up against a slender barmaid with ashen hair, hands on her waist. Jaskier whispered something in her ear that Geralt couldn’t quite catch amidst the dull roar of voices and clanking cutlery, but the girl giggled in response. 

Geralt’s stomach twisted unpleasantly at the sight and he began making his way over to the pair before he consciously decided to move his feet. Before he could reach them however, the barmaid grabbed Jaskier by the hand and tugged him toward a dimly lit corridor. 

Geralt, despite his better judgement, followed. He tried to justify it to himself even as he approached the darkened hallway. For all he knew, the girl was a werewolf or bruxa. Geralt hadn’t gotten a good look at her, or caught a clear whiff of her scent. 

His flimsy excuse completely fell apart as soon as he heard a soft moan echo from farther down the corridor. Fabric rustled and Geralt heard a soft, feminine moan.

“Gorgeous.” It was Jaskier’s voice, but low and husky in a way Geralt had never heard it. “I could sing a dozen ballads about the way you look right now, darling.” 

Geralt felt as if his heart had dropped into his stomach, but he couldn’t convince his traitorous body to move away. 

The barmaid giggled, and the sound grated on Geralt’s nerves. “Only a dozen?”

“Well, if you’d only allow me to undo these pesky laces, it might just be a hundred.” It should have sounded like a cheap line, but somehow Jaskier made the words ring sincere. 

More fabric rustled, accompanied by another moan, and the smell of a woman’s arousal hit Geralt’s nose. The Witcher bit down on his lower lip nearly hard enough to draw blood as he tried to stifle the territorial snarl building in his chest. The animalistic side of him, the part that kept his Witcher instincts finely honed, wanted to tear the barmaid off of Jaskier and cover the bard’s body with his own. Protective. 

Possessive.

A wet sound forced Geralt to press a hand over his mouth to muffle a growl. He shouldn’t stay here. Shouldn’t have followed them in the first place. It took nearly all his willpower to drag himself away, back into the noisy main room and over to the bar.

The innkeeper wordlessly placed a bowl of stew in front of him before scurrying away. Maybe she‘d picked his mood — or maybe Geralt had frightened her more than he’d thought. Jaskier might sing about the White Wolf as if he was a folk hero, but the second Geralt bared his teeth, everyone else shied away as if he was a barely tame beast. 

As if he was a monster.

But not Jaskier. No matter how many times Geralt yelled or snapped or growled at the bard, Jaskier stayed. 

He’d seen Geralt cut down drowners and ghouls with ease, seen the danger inherent in his every movement, and yet he still pressed his body up against Geralt’s on chilly nights. 

Geralt’s cat-like pupils fascinated him and instead of flinching every time the Witcher cast a sign, Jaskier watched him with a mixture of excitement and awe. 

When Geralt got selkimore guts in his hair, Jaskier combed out the gore with gentle fingers. 

The griffin incident had been nothing new, Geralt realized with surprise; Jaskier was always taking care of him in small ways. He’d bought Geralt a new whetstone several weeks ago ago, after a wyvern had sent his old one skittering over a cliff. Sometimes he’d give Geralt a potion of his own meal, claiming he was full or that he’d charmed the farmer’s son out of an extra apple. Two years ago, he’d pushed Geralt out of the way of an angry arachas, earning himself a deep cut on his thigh in the process. There was still a scar there.

Jaskier cared about him, and that realization made something desperate stir inside Geralt. He yearned for the bard’s melodic voice whispering in his ear, calloused fingers brushing over Geralt’s scars, and his mouth pressing gentle kisses along the column of the Witcher’s throat.

Soft, sweet,  _ vulnerable _ .

Geralt closed his eyes tightly and muttered a quiet, “Fuck.” 


	3. Chapter 3

When Jaskier came back into the tavern’s main room, the musky scent of sex on his mouth and fingers, Geralt did everything he could to avoid him.

Which, admittedly, wasn’t much, given that Jaskier immediately walked over to the bar and sat down beside him. 

The bard started chattering away at Geralt — something about the overall quality of Redanian taverns — but all Geralt could think of was the way Jaskier’s voice dipped into a lower register when he’d been charming his way under that barmaid’s skirts. Luckily, Jaskier was used to his long silences and grumpy hums, and didn’t pay his silence any mind.

He knocked back the rest of his drink with a grimace. This... infatuation, or whatever it was (Geralt refused to call it a _crush),_ was becoming a problem. He chanced a glance at Jaskier, and found the bard looking right back at him.

“You’re even more surly than usual today,” Jaskier said. His tone was light, almost teasing, but Geralt caught the undertone of worry. “Something wrong?”

Geralt grunted and stared down at his empty cup to avoid looking at Jaskier’s piercing blue eyes.

That drew a sigh out of the bard. “It wouldn’t kill you to just talk to me, you know. I’m not asking for monologues, mind you, but a sentence longer than five words would be nice.” 

He sounded so damn earnest, but Geralt only responded with a shrug of his shoulders. Talking to Jaskier about his vividly detailed wet dreams featuring the bard himself sounded like a bad idea. And telling Jaskier that Geralt had just overheard him seducing a woman and was getting a little hard over the memory? An even worse idea. 

“Fine. I suppose I’ll leave you to your brooding, then.” Jaskier’s stool scraped against the tavern floor as he got up. Jaskier’s warm hand cupped the back of Geralt’s neck, just another one of the man’s casual affectionate gestures. It really shouldn’t have been anything special, but then Jaskier gave a gentle squeeze. Geralt went momentarily rigid, then melted into the contact. His muscles relaxed without his consent, a boneless, floaty feeling settling over him, spreading down from that one point of contact. Even though there were a dozen strangers around him, even though he should have been alert and ready for anything, Geralt felt... Safe.

Jaskier inhaled sharply beside him and pulled his hand away. The entire interaction couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds, but it left Geralt stripped bare. The embarrassment overwhelmed him in an instant and he pushed back his barstool, desperate to escape Jaskier’s presence. He couldn’t have made his feelings more obvious if he’d rolled onto his back and presented Jaskier with the vulnerable expanse of his throat. A spark of arousal shot through him at that particular thought and he grimaced. _Pathetic._

“I’m going to bed,” Geralt muttered. If he stayed here any longer, Jaskier would no doubt do something innocently erotic, like bite his lower lip, and then Geralt would end up with erection in the middle of the damn tavern. He pushed past several patrons on his way over to the stairs, ignoring their cries of protest. Only when he was safely ensconced in his room did he allow himself to take a deep breath and let it out in a long-suffering sigh. It had only taken one touch, just that little bit of pleasure, and he’d nearly fallen apart. How pitiful was that?

Geralt methodically removed his armor until he was clothed only in a comfortable pair of breeches. Perhaps Jaskier would forget his strange reaction come morning, and, after a good night’s rest, Geralt could pretend everything was back to normal. Maybe he could finally shove his desire and longing and petty jealousy into the back of his mind and never acknowledge them again. It hadn’t worked so far, but at this point the hope that these feelings would go away was the only thing keeping him from going insane.

Geralt settled onto one of the room’s two beds and slipped under the scratchy blankets, before closing his eyes. Yet, as if Geralt was the needle of a compass and Jaskier was north, his mind inevitably drifted back to the damn bard. Geralt’s brain kept replaying the way his voice became husky with arousal as he talked to that barmaid. He’d called her _gorgeous_ and _darling._

Did Jaskier talk to all his bed partners like that? It was easy to imagine him soothing their worries with sweet words while he stoked their desires with even sweeter touches. Geralt could imagine Jaskier spreading his lovers out and worshipping every inch of their skin... The Witcher’s cock throbbed in his breeches at the thought.

Geralt palmed himself through the thin cloth even as his stomach twisted with guilt. He shouldn’t be doing this, not when Jaskier could walk into their room at any moment. That thought should have been enough to make him control himself, but unfortunately the idea of the bard catching him in the act only made Geralt’s prick even more interested in the proceedings. Would Jaskier be disgusted by him? Unlikely; the bard had certainly seen more than his fair share of hard cocks, given the wide scope of his sexual proclivities. Jaskier would most likely make a joke in poor taste and leave.

But what if he didn’t?

Geralt allowed himself to imagine Jaskier staring at him hungrily, then crawling into bed with him. The Witcher slipped his hand under his waistband, unable to help himself any longer. Jaskier would straddle his thighs and push Geralt’s hand away so that he could stroke the swollen flesh himself. Maybe he’d take it in his mouth — the image alone was enough to make Geralt moan and his prick leak. Those stupidly pretty lips, wrapped around him... Those lovely hands pushing his hips into the mattress. 

Maybe Jaskier would ride him. Geralt would have to just lay there as the bard used him at his leisure, bouncing up and down on his prick. Jaskier’s skin would be slick with sweat and he’d toss his head back, exposing his throat as he came.

Or maybe... maybe he’d coax Geralt onto his stomach and stretch the Witcher open with those dexterous, calloused fingers. He wouldn’t have to hold Geralt down to keep him from squirming — all Jaskier would have to do was gently grasp the back of his neck as he pushed into him, and Geralt would go as limp as a kitten held by the scruff of its neck. The thought of Jaskier fucking into him, _filling_ him, all while holding Geralt down by just that single point of contact, was nearly enough to take Geralt over the edge. 

He imagined Jaskier murmuring _darling_ above him, and his orgasm nearly blinded him. It came over him in waves, each one sending sparks of pleasure down his spine. Geralt arched off the bed and his toes curled in pleasure as he made a mess of his breeches. Even when it was finally over, his entire body was still humming with leftover pleasure. 

Unfortunately, the guilt that hit him when he came back to himself easily killed the afterglow. Jaskier wasn’t interested in him, but Geralt had humped his hand while fantasizing about his best friend anyway. His self control was usually better than this — _He_ was usually better than this. But there was something about Jaskier that got under his skin. There always had been, even that first day they met. Geralt’s iron will snapped as easily as a twig under the bard’s attentions. 

Geralt sighed and rolled out of bed to clean himself up. If he was going to let himself wallow in shame, he had to wipe away the semen drying on his skin — he had that much dignity left, at least. A spare rag did the trick, and he changed into his one spare pairs of breeches — so worn now that the fabric was soft as feather down against his thighs. It felt like a luxury he didn’t deserve.

When he slipped under the sheets and closed his eyes, sleep still refused to claim him. Thoughts of Jaskier swirled around in his mind and the guilt made his chest tight. Geralt could practically hear Vesemir’s voice, chastising him for getting so attached to a human... A human that didn’t even want him back. 

He wasn’t sure how long he lay there, but when Jaskier stumbled into their room, it had to have been at least a few hours. The bard reeked of alcohol, specifically the kind of cheap vodka one only imbibes for the specific purpose of getting drunk. Jaskier tripped over something and cursed under breath. Fabric rustled and there was a soft thump, probably Jaskier ridding himself of his doublet and taking off his boots as he prepared for bed. 

Geralt felt himself relax slightly, despite himself. There was something soothing about the bard’s presence, knowing he was safe and sound close by, where Geralt could protect him. His tense muscles loosened and it was almost enough to let him finally drift to sleep.

But then he felt Jaskier’s warm body press up against his back. The bard had crawled into bed with him. Geralt felt something in his stomach clench as he realized that Jaskier, drunk as he was, inhibitions lowered, had wanted to sleep next to a Witcher. An arm wrapped around his waist and Jaskier buried his face in Geralt’s neck with a soft sigh. His breath was warm and slightly damp on Geralt’s skin, not unpleasant save for the fact that the scent of vodka eclipsed Jaskier’s natural odor.

“Witcher,” Jaskier murmured. He was close enough that Geralt could feel his lips moving. “My Witcher...” His words were slightly slurred and Geralt was pretty sure Jaskier wasn’t completely aware he was saying it out loud. He probably thought Geralt was asleep. “So strong, so silent. Too fucking-“ He hiccuped, “Too fucking silent. You keep it all bottled up in there.” His hand left Geralt’s waist to brush a loose strand of hair back from his forehead. “I bet your head is full to bursting. You know, sometimes I wish I was a witch just so that I could see what was going on in there.” Geralt could barely suppress a wince when the bard gave a hollow laugh; he sounded exhausted. He shifted subtly back against Jaskier, trying to offer what little comfort he could while not giving himself away. It seemed to work; Jaskier let out another sigh, fond instead of sad this time, and Geralt swore he felt the bard’s lips kiss the back of his neck for one fleeting moment. “Maybe one day you’ll finally trust me enough to tell me yourself. Until then... Well, I’ll wait.”

Jaskier’s breathing slowed into an even rhythm, and it wasn’t more than a minute before he was asleep. It took Geralt far longer to drift off, and when he did, he dreamed of soft skin, blue eyes, and a melodic tune sung in a very familiar voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for being patient with me. I'm not a very fast writer, but I'm really enjoying all your comments and thoughts. See you next chapter - things are about to really kick off
> 
> Edit: I posted this with my own note to myself to "think of a sexy term for erection" still in the text. I fixed it, but I felt like you should know


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In case you forgot what happened last time on Hold Me: Adventure, Intrigue, Romance! Geralt got jealous of the maiden Jaskier was wooing and ended up jerking off to thoughts about his best friend. Afterward, Jaskier stumbled drunkenly into the room and climbed in bed with our Witcher, who was feigning sleep. He confessed his desire for Geralt's trust in a drunken ramble, then fell asleep against the White Wolf's back. Shocking! Scandalous!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, crashing into the room holding a new chapter aloft: NO ONE EXPECTS THE SPANISH INQUISITION. 
> 
> Your reward for being so patient is actual plot. Thank you for over 600 kudos and all your lovely comments.

Geralt was barely able to look Jaskier in the eye the next morning. Every time he caught sight of the bard, his mind flashed back to the night before and his stomach twisted. He and Jaskier separated for their morning tasks — Jaskier went to the market to restock their supplies, while Geralt headed off to the alderman’s house — but even then, Geralt couldn’t shake the tense feeling. 

At least the alderman had a job for him, and, in an unusual bit of good luck, was willing to pay good money for it. Apparently there was an archespore growing in the elven ruins a few miles from town and the spores it shed were poisonous enough to kill any normal human that breathed them. The alderman thought he could make some money off of whatever artifacts remained in the ruins, Geralt surmised; otherwise he wouldn’t be willing to pay so much. It would be a difficult hunt, perhaps, but worth it. 

Jaskier thought otherwise.

“If I can't go because the thing spits poison, Geralt, why in the hell are you trying to fight it?” The bard crossed his arms and aimed his best pout at his companion.

Geralt sighed. “Venom. And because Witchers are resistant to almost all venomous substances. I’ve explained this before.” Jaskier could remember the lyrics and chords to a hundred different songs, but some information seemed to just go in one ear and out the other.

“Exactly! Resistant, not immune.” He gestured at Geralt, as if the Witcher had just proved his point for him. “And don’t think I’ve forgotten the whole griffin incident. You’re not invincible, you know.”

Geralt resisted the urge to rub his temples in frustration. “I’ve been doing this longer than you’ve been alive, Jaskier; I can take care of myself.” The bard just stared at him with a displeased expression and Geralt let out an even deeper sigh. “If it eases your conscience, small doses of archespore poison are used in recreational drugs across the Continent. Even if I did accidentally get hit, it wouldn’t really harm me; it would just make me a bit disoriented.” He’d never actually experienced the effects himself, but the bestiaries Vesemir had made him read when he was younger were quite clear on the subject.

“Fine,” Jaskier relented. “But if you’re not back in a day, I’m going to assume that you need rescuing.” 

Geralt knew better than to argue; Jaskier could be incredibly stubborn when he wanted to be. “Fine. Look after Roach while I’m gone.”

Jaskier nodded, apparently satisfied. “Of course. Do you think that, if I spoil her a little, she’ll stop trying to bite me?” Even after all these years, he was still determined to win Roach’s affections and it brought a little smile to Geralt’s face.

“No, but she might if you stop trying out your new songs on her.” Jaskier spluttered in response, offended, and Geralt let out a rare, genuine laugh as the tension in his shoulders finally eased.

—

Geralt knew he was getting close to the archespore’s lair when the forest grew unnaturally quiet. No birdsong, no rustling leaves, no soft shuffling sounds of animals moving along the forest floor. Geralt paused to oil his blade and down a dose of the potion he’d prepared to help him keep up his stamina, making as little noise as possible as he prepared. The silence was eerie, but it made sense that the forest’s inhabitants avoided this area; if things were as the alderman claimed, then this archespore was likely a member of a particularly vicious subspecies — a fact he’d purposely neglected to mention to Jaskier. Instead of snapping up local wildlife like overgrown venus flytraps, white archespores like this one fed off the land itself, sucking up a vast amount of nutrients from the soil and poisoning anything that got too close with a dusting of extremely toxic pollen. So Geralt wasn’t just going to have to dodge every vine and glob of acidic spit the monster threw at him: he was going to have to do it holding his breath.

Geralt double checked his supplies one more time before heading deeper into the forest. He’d been sloppy during the griffin incident and it had nearly gotten him killed; this time would be different. He had a plan: a stealthy Igni would set the creature ablaze, confusing and weakening it so that Geralt could rush in for the final blow. 

But first, he had to find the damn thing.

Geralt ventured deeper into the woods, strained his hearing for the slightest noise. He paused for a moment, cocking his head to the side, and — there. A soft rustle emanated from the clearing to his right. Taking care not to make a sound, Geralt slipped between the trees until he could get a good look.

The dilapidated stone of the elven ruin before him was covered in limp, sickly looking vines and the rest of the nearby plantlife was in equally bad shape; the archespore had to be close. Geralt crept toward the ruin, ducking behind piles of rubble whenever he heard another rustle of leaves. He peered into what has once been a courtyard and there, in the center, was the archespore.

Towering at roughly ten feet high, it was easily one of the biggest of its kind Geralt had ever seen. Its stem and petals were snow white, save for the center of its flower-like head, which was as red as freshly spilled blood. Just the sight made Geralt tighten his grip on his sword before taking a deep breath and holding it. Once the archespore realized he was there, he’d inevitably be showered with a rain of toxic pollen, and it was best not to inhale even a single breath of the stuff.

Geralt stepped forward, his free hand raised to cast Igni- and stepped on something that moved. He looked down and his stomach dropped: there, under his boot, was a pure white, gently pulsating root. He barely had time to roll to the left before the archespore’s massive face turned toward him and it screeched, sending a glob of venomous spittle hurtling toward the spot he’d been mere seconds ago. 

Another, larger root lifted up out of the ground in an attempt to trip him, but Geralt slashed through it and began to run. He just needed to get close enough to set the damn thing ablaze, then he’d have the upper hand. 

He dodged around another root as the archespore shuddered and twitched, sending a flurry of reddish specks into the air. A miniature snowstorm of pollen floated down on Geralt, but his fingers were already moving through the familiar motions of Igni and, with a last mental push, he sent a gout of flame toward the archespore.

The fire caught. Tongues of flame quickly licked up the creature’s thick stem and its petals began to singe at the edges. The archespore let out a high pitch  _ scream, _ thrashing about in agony as its pale flesh began to char. 

Geralt charged forward, sword in hand, but in a last ditch effort to save itself, the archespore lashed out with another root and knocked the Witcher’s legs out from under him. He crashed to the forest floor, and the impact of his back on the hard-packed soil knocked the air from his lungs. He struggled to get a breath, momentarily heedless of the pollen in the air. 

The first gasp was as sweet as benediction, but with the second he knew he’d made a mistake. 

But there was no time to think of that now. Geralt rolled up off the ground, sword still in hand, and charged. He cleaved the archespore’s stem in half with several precise strikes, cutting off its shrieking for good. A quick Aard blew out the flames so that they wouldn’t catch the whole forest on fire and, with that done, Geralt sank to his knees, panting. A fight that quick wouldn’t usually wear him out, but even the small dose of pollen he’d inhaled was making him feel lightheaded. 

Which, once he thought about it, meant he needed to get up and get out of here immediately. A normal human would be nearly dead by now. Geralt quickly claimed a few large petals as proof of his kill and got away from the ruins as fast as he could.

He’d hoped that once he was away from the toxins, his body would quickly clear the poison from his system, but as he walked back to town he found himself growing steadily more woozy. The afternoon sunlight was too bright and a slight breeze prompted a whole body shiver. The birdsong resumed once he got nearer to town, but it echoed strangely in his ears. The whole experience was like something out of a dream, one where everything felt ever so slightly off. 

By the time Geralt reached the inn, his legs were trembling with the effort of keeping himself upright and, despite the pleasant weather, he was soaked in sweat. He stared at the door to the inn a moment, trying to remember how to open it.

Mercifully, shoving at it proved effective and the door swung open onto a mostly unoccupied tavern. With some effort, Geralt climbed the stairs up to the second floor, ignoring a disapproving look from the innkeeper. He pushed open the door to the room he had rented and collapsed to his knees with a soft groan. 

“Blessed Melitele,“ came Jaskier’s voice from somewhere far away. He sounded worried. With a frown, Geralt opened his eyes (when had he closed them?) to find Jaskier sitting on the bed near the window. The light shining through glass illuminated his face quite attractively, and Geralt felt an easy smile stretch his lips, previous discomfort forgotten. His bard was so lovely. 

“Are you alright?” Jaskier asked. His eyebrows were drawn together in concern and he made to stand, but froze when Geralt began crawling across the floor towards him. “Umm. Okay, you’re not bleeding at all, but you’re crawling instead of walking. And you’re not speaking. I’m going to take that as a ‘No, Jaskier, I’m not alright.’” 

Geralt actually didn’t feel too bad now that he was out of the bright sunlight. A little warm and a bit foggy, sure, but Jaskier was here, so it really wasn’t so bad. He rested his face against the bard’s knee with a happy little sigh. 

“ ‘M fine.” He managed to force out the words in an attempt to wipe that worried expression off Jaskier’s face. “Inhaled some pollen, but it’ll... it’ll wear off in a bit.” For now, though, he was perfectly content to stay right here. 

“Pollen,” Jaskier repeated flatly. “Ah, these must be those famed Witcher allergies I’ve heard so much about.” Geralt snickered at the joke. Jaskier was funny. Why hadn’t he told him that before?

“Yeah, there’s definitely something wrong. You’re laughing at my jokes,” Jaskier said. He gently tilted Geralt’s face up to look him in the eyes. ”Your pupils are extremely dilated, too. What was that you said about archespore poison being used in recreational drugs?”

“They are,” Geralt confirmed, nuzzling against Jaskier’s palm. He could feel the slight texture of each callous against his skin, and just this one touch made his whole body buzz in the best sort of way. “You have really nice hands. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Yes, but usually not in this context,” the bard quipped, but he did blush a bit at the compliment. “And regardless, I’m pretty sure you’re high on archespore pollen and can’t be trusted.”

“Hmm.” Geralt laid his head down against Jaskier’s inner thigh this time, breathing in deeply just so that he could enjoy the musky scent of Jaskier’s body. “The pollen mostly just makes you... Uninhibited. Floaty. Mildly addictive, but that’s not a worry for witchers.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Jaskier’s breath hitched when Geralt started rubbing his cheek against the soft fabric of his breeches. “So... You’ll be fine then?”

“In a couple hours,” Geralt confirmed. Yes, he decided, now that he was with Jaskier, this drug-induced floatiness wasn’t bad at all. His body tingled pleasantly and, strangely enough, he felt safe. It wasn’t dissimilar to the way his mind had gone quiet when Yennefer held him down during sex. And, now that he’d thought of it, sex sounded like a wonderful idea.

Jaskier liked men. Maybe he’d be willing to indulge Geralt, just this once. That thought set alarm bells ringing in the back of his mind, but they were muffled, so he ignored them. 

Geralt shuffled closer, forcing Jaskier to open his legs wider to accommodate the Witcher. That earned him a sharp inhale, which Geralt took as a signal to continue. He put his hands on Jaskier’s thighs to brace himself as he leaned forward and mouthed wetly at the front of the other man’s breeches. He was too uncoordinated to open the laces at the moment, but hopefully this would get his point across. Even imagining what the musky taste of Jaskier’s cock might be like made his own jump to attention. 

Jaskier  _ moaned _ above him, the most indecent sound he’d ever made in Geralt’s presence — and that was saying something. Geralt made a pleased noise when fingers tangled in his hair, but instead of pulling him closer, Jaskier tugged him away. Geralt whined and struggled weakly against the grip, like a child whose new favorite toy had been taken away. The archespore venom has sapped his strength, though, and he wasn’t able to do much besides squirm.

“No.” Jaskier’s voice had taken on a firm, commanding quality that made Geralt’s dick twitch. “We are not doing this when you’re high as a kite, Geralt.” When Geralt opened his mouth to protest, Jaskier tugged sharply at his hair again. The sensation sent a shockwave of pleasure down Geralt’s spine so intense he was surprised he didn’t come right then and there. He must have made some sort of sound, because when he opened his eyes again, Jaskier was staring at him with dark eyes.

“Oh, that’s not fair,” he muttered, still holding onto Geralt’s hair. “The gods are  _ testing  _ me.” He caressed Geralt’s face with his free hand and the Witcher leaned into the touch without a second thought. “Listen to me, darling, you can’t consent right now, and if you woke up tomorrow morning and realized you didn’t really want it, I’d never be able to forgive myself.”

“I do want it,” Geralt promised. “Please, Jas, I want it so much. Wanted it for  _ weeks _ now.” Jaskier looked completely stunned, so Geralt kept going, absolutely shameless. “Want your cock in my mouth. Want you to fuck me so hard I feel it for days.” He’d barely allowed himself to think about those things before, but now the desire was all-consuming: the djinn was out of the bottle and there was no putting it back. 

“I want to. Believe me, dear heart, I do,” Jaskier said, his voice rough with arousal. “But not right now. Ask me again tomorrow, and I’ll do every filthy thing you desire — twice over, if I can manage it. But you’ll have to be patient. Can you do that for me?”

Geralt considered it for a moment, then reluctantly nodded. He could wait. He could be good. 

Jaskier let go of his death grip on Geralt’s hair, instead running a hand through the silver strands. “Good boy.“ A shiver of absolute pleasure went down Geralt’s spine at those words and he knew he’d do just about anything to hear them again.

When Jaskier instructed him to take off his outer layers of armor and climb into bed, Geralt did so without question, and the bard wrapped them both up in the blankets. He pressed himself against Geralt’s side, and the solid warmth of him was heavenly even through Geralt’s underclothes.

“Sleep, darling,” Jaskier murmured, and Geralt was out like a light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think 3 out of 4 chapters have now ended with Geralt falling asleep. Oh well XD

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the Geraskier discord server for keeping my motivation fresh with all their horny energy. Your comments mean the world to me!


End file.
